Work Text:
Luka is working on a new song when she comes home. Potentially? He’s definitely giving it a strum, curled up with it on the floor of their living room like he’s been barred from using the couch for its intended purpose, and that’s— that’s nice, actually. She likes the simplicity. Coming home after a long day where her brain has been spinning in circles with how much attention to detail is required from her in the bakery makes the sight of him eyewatering. God, she’s missed him. She couldn’t even text him, too busy with her shift, but the sight of him is a breath of fresh air.
And all he’s doing is just sitting there. Nothing remotely even special. The mundane is something she’s so used to, so thankful for, so blessed, tucking her shoes into the cubby next to the front door and picking off her sorry excuse for a messenger bag that’s seen better days. She stares at him while she toes off her canvas shoes. Blinks wordlessly as she unwraps the corded headphones from the strap of her bag. Says nothing as she hangs up her uniform cap.
Luka’s just there.
He’s got his guitar in his hands, dressed in his black jeans that have more holes in them than fishnets do, and a simple tank, showing off his tattoos. There are little claw marks on his forearms, scars that haven’t really faded, from her liking him, loving him, biting him when he does something stupid and she can’t keep her infatuation to herself. When he doesn’t like the music he’s written down, he licks at a thumb to move a page, and grimaces at the metallic taste from strumming for hours. Marinette just… looks at him.
Blue hair.
Blue eyes.
The smell of home.
Luka, Luka, Luka. Alpha, alpha, alpha.
When Luka looks up at her, he smiles, fangs glinting at her in a way that is just so familiar it makes her sigh. He’s not shy about his fangs anymore. Why was he ever? She knew that he’s always been cautious with flashing them, not enjoying the pointed stares others give when they show, but he’s not like that when it’s just them. Just them. Just them both. He takes up space, flashes those pearly whites, mocks her by biting the air when threatened with the idea of throwing all his soured broccoli into the trash.
Exhaustion reeks out of every pore in her body, leaving her feeling akin to discarded laundry. Mentally, the day couldn’t have been more taxing. Physically laborious as always, she hardly pays attention to the way her shoulders ache from working such a physical job. It takes a toll on her. It does. But it’s the brain, that silly little thing that she doesn’t exactly quite know how to keep on a metaphorical leash before it goes and splats itself against the nearest metaphorical pavement, is the issue. This headache is splitting her head open in multiple different locations, and it almost brings tears to her eyes, and she’s desperate to take a scouring pad to it to wipe out all thoughts.
ADHD is never more fun as it is when she’s thoroughly exhausted, spent-out and feeling like a discarded dish rag on the side of the sink after dealing with Anarka’s attempt at grilling a cheese sandwich on the panini press.
“Hi, Kitty.”
“Hi,” she replies, shoulders curled and aching.
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s okay.” She lets the silence linger until he’s narrowing his eyes at her, smile still on but more amused. Curious. From head to toe, just like always, there’s a thin sheet of flour coating her skin, a proper beignet. She feels disgusting and needs a shower. Staring at their hardwood floors, she breeches the silence with a firm: “Could be better, but I’m going to fix it. I’ve been fifteen seconds away from an orgasm all day, so I’m going to need some alone time for about a minute in our bedroom.”
Luka hits the wrong chord on his guitar and perks up.
She’s determined, making a face that means business, when he finds something to respond with, settling on: “Oh. I— Okay. Really?”
“Really.”
“Do you…” He approaches the quietness with the slowness of a man patient enough to be considered a saint. “Want some help, maybe?”
Help? Help? He wouldn’t be any help. He’s been the entire problem the entire day, with his big arms and soft smile. That dopeyness to him, that gentle look in his eye, the way he kisses her forehead before she leaves for work is the reason why slick had built up in her panties throughout the entire day. Any moment she has where she’s frustrated with work, she remembers that he’s waiting for her at home, and remembers this is hers.
This entire guy is hers.
And what a guy.
All pretty, all gorgeous, all tallness, all lameness. This is her guy. She’s so infatuated with the man in front of her that it almost hurts. She does her best to remember that this guy is none other than Luka Couffaine, but she can’t take him seriously after she grew up next to him, watching him get a bowl haircut after haircut when they were younger. Anarka got creative with her scissors. Jean wanted to give their two kids mohawks. Luka’s lucky to have survived at all.
“This,” Marinette says, bringing up a finger so she can wave at him and her. “Is really good.”
“What is?”
“You.” She points in his direction when he grins, something lopsided and homely and him, ignoring how her toes curl at the sight of his fangs getting a little bit longer. “Us. It’s very good. Heaven-sent. Don’t get me wrong. Don’t think I’m saying no because I hate having sex, or whatever.”
“Right.”
“I cry a lot when you knot my mouth.”
“I’m aware. I’m usually in the room with you.”
“And I like it when we do anal.”
“You do come pretty hard from it, yeah.”
“But.”
“But,” he parrots.
“But you… would make me wait too long.”
His grin turns a little nasty. Bleeding on the edges of something much, much more sinister. “Oh, yeah? Would I?”
She forgets he’s an alpha most of the time, but not when he looks at her like this.
“F-foreplay with you takes a long time. And it is great— really great— but I swear, if I have to wait a single minute longer, I think I’m going to go drown myself in the Seine.”
“We don’t need foreplay if you don’t want it.”
“I don’t think that’s an option with you.” She’s shucking everything she can while he gives a low laugh, prickling the back of her neck with the feeling of being watched. Shirt, tossed into the living room laundry bin, because they’ve been in these situations before and Marinette refuses to leave clothes on the floor. Jean shorts follow, and they roll down her legs, sticky with damp slick that has been keeping her company for a few hours, all the while the giant alpha on the other side of the living room stares at her like she’s prey. “I’ve been thinking about your stupid mouth and arms and chest the whole day.”
This takes him by surprise. “R-really?”
She stands there in her underwear, pursing her lips and thinking about what toy to grab, and this spurs him on to continue talking. God, really. The thought of him had felt like an ache. She’d been so frustrated, so annoyed, that everything except the thought of him was getting under her skin.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He’s shifting around to face her better, to put and arm up on the seat of the sofa in a way that flexes his bicep and has the tattoo of the snake bend and twist with the amount of packed muscle there. God, what a sight. He’s doing it on purpose. He has to be. The shines in his eyes tell all, amused and delighted and smug, as the itchiness in her gums is so much that she rubs at her nose in an attempt to calm it down.
“What would I say that you haven’t heard before?” she sniffles again, scratching her nose, rubbing her teeth together until she hears a silent click! from her fangs hitting her bottom canines. “That I like your arms, or something? That the shape of your arms and shoulders are so attractive it gets me nervous and I can’t focus at work? I’ve never been good at dirty talk. I’d rather just drool about it.”
And drool she will.
Luka stares. Hard. She can hear him swallow, eyes tracking her, zeroing in on the standard, shapeless bra she’s wearing like it’s the hottest thing in the world. She can tell, just by the way he licks his lips, her hipster-cut panties are approaching that singularity of hotness in his brain that only typically happen with g-strings. It’ll be dangerous to pass him on the way to the bedroom, but she’s going to have to take that risk if she wants to come. Which she really, definitely does. But Luka is staring at her in underwear and gazing at her with an intensity only rivaled by when the two of them are coming back from the gym and are desperate to eat half of their kitchen to make up for the carbs.
“I think you need my help.”
“I do not. Here’s the plan: I’m going to go into our bedroom and I will sit on the floor so that I don’t dirty our sheets. I will pick out my pink vibrator.”
Luka’s eyes go shiny.
“The one that makes you shriek?” he asks. When she nods, his breath turns a little ragged. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say that the alpha on the other side was starting to get antsy, wrapping his fist around the neck of the guitar in an attempt to keep himself still. “I like that one. It’s one of my favorites. You make a pretty face when you use it.”
It’s hard to ignore that, but she’s brave, and committed, and is busy tying her hair up with a hair tie that she keeps on her wrist. A pony tail will have to do. A bun. Anything to get the dampness off her glands, of sweat building up from a long and hard day at work where she couldn’t stop imagining Luka groaning underneath her and licking the beads of sweat off her skin like he’s savoring a meal. One flat lap of her skin would have her creaming her pants from how on edge she is.
“And then,” she continues, checking to see if she’s missed any spare lock of hair in the tiny little mirror next to the door she uses to check if she’s got something between her teeth before leaving to work for the day, “I will pray that it’s charged enough for the ten miserable seconds I need it for, and keep it on my clit.”
“What if you squirt? You’ll need someone to help you.”
“I’ll grab my bathroom towel and put it underneath my butt before I start.”
“But… I can help.”
“No touching. I’ll close the door and lock it to give myself privacy.”
Silence lingers in the living room, tension building between them both. Luka puts his guitar down— gently, of course, because he doesn’t want any damage to come to one his most prized possessions. Thank god he doesn’t treat her that way in bed. In a flash, with a swiftness and speed that shouldn’t be possible given his towering height, he’s standing and already pacing on their Persian rug around the coffee table and worries his lips raw. “I won’t help, but can I watch?”
He’s following. Weaving behind her when she reaches into the bathroom for her towel, ducking when she throws it over her shoulder and nearly clips him in the jaw with it. She says nothing, focused on making it to her end goal. They ignore how the insides of her thighs squeak with slick as she continues to walk, waddle, towards her destination.
“Can I watch you masturbate?” He tries again, when Marinette doesn’t answer and keeps her sight on the door and not at all how his pecs fill out that tank top. “I like seeing you come.”
Now here’s the moment of all places where she goes shy, licking at her teeth when she looks back at him. Tall. He’s so tall. Her eyes barely make it to the center of his chest, to the twinkling chain of the dog tags he has there that always braids itself with the guitar pick on the leather loop. She can’t quite look at him in the eyes, knowing that she’ll have difficulty with stopping him, because she just really wants it.
Wants him. It’s animalistic how she sees the sculpt of his arms, the way he breathes and his chest fills up that shirt of his like he’s running a marathon, and thinks about accepting her fate as nothing but a chew toy for someone as hot as him when he wants to be mean.
Her voice slips into something soft, delicate, honey-sweet, making her even more prey-like. The sight of him almost makes her boneless, having nothing to hold her firm on the idea that had been keeping her company during her shift; his arms are comfortable, familiar, and just what she needs to melt away the annoyance of her workday. But she needs to be strong. “You promise you won’t touch?”
It pains him to nod his head. She can see that flex in his neck, in his jaw, as he forces himself to bite his tongue and not reply with what she assumes is fuck no. She can’t help but lick her lips, gaze at the blue hair that falls across such broad shoulders, and think about faceplanting into his glands and letting ginseng tea carry her to the finish line. “I’ll do my best.”
“Because I need an orgasm now,” she reiterates. “No making me wait.”
“I won’t do that.”
“You promise?”
“Ten seconds,” he manages to reply. A beat passes between them both, her eyes widening when she realizes it’s not him holding onto her words like a lifeline. It’s him warning her. Ten seconds of compliance.
It’s an absolute miracle that she’s able to run into their bedroom without being snatched up, but maybe Luka has more self control than she’s realized, already counting down to the number nine. Or maybe he just wants to give her a head-start. Either way, she parts the nest-netting on their bed with way more speed than necessary, opening it until she can see their pre-made bed with that soft duvet that she really likes and follows it with laying down her towel.
Nevermind. She doesn’t want to be on the floor.
A flick of her wrists opens the towel up and covers as much surface area as she can before pivoting and scrambling for the nightstand that keeps all of their toys in, all before Luka is even able to get a single peep out of him and complain about how he’s been waiting for too long. He’s a patient man, even when he’s panting like something that isn’t, and yet his fists are solid and formed when she briefly glances back at him to see how he’s doing.
On his knees, because he knows how much it upsets her to see jeans anywhere remotely close on their bedspread, kneeling next to her thighs like he’s ready for prayer. She’s fumbling to get her underwear off, not interested in making a scene of it, trying to get it to roll off the fat of her thighs but it’s just impossible. For one, she has those dips in her hips because her thighs have taken all the fat distribution, so fabric always gets caught on there. Two, she’s soaking, and the underwear is starting to roll and bunch up. Desperation has her nearly kicking, but Luka’s face is right there, planted where her kneecap would hit his chin and give him a shiner, so she respects his bodily autonomy and doesn’t give into getting violent with her own clothes.
Under his breath, Luka counts down like a ticking bomb.
Underwear goes flying behind him when she finally gets it to sling off her ankle, and she couldn’t be the least interested in it, more interested in looking for the button on the toy and trying not to freeze under his stare. Instinct has her heart beating against her chest like a butterfly, and her spine straightening out so she can just present herself in a way that would be pleasing, but she needs to be strong. Either she gets this orgasm out, or spends the next eight hours begging. She’s not emotionally capable of lasting that long, so she’ll have to put in the effort.
And yet it doesn’t stop her from letting her legs fall apart, planting her feet wide open and giving him a view. Was that her doing? Or was it instinctual? Was it because there’s something on his face that reads he needs to see and she needs to show him, or is she just being courteous? Arousal drips out of her as if she’s in heat, something goopy and sticky and wet, and Luka’s eyes suddenly aren’t so blue anymore as he stares and stares.
“Are you sure you don’t want help?” he asks, not quite meeting her eyes. A flat drag of his tongue against his upper lip has her squirming.
“I’m sure,” she replies, though it doesn’t sound all that convincing. In an attempt to prove her point, the vibrator sings to life; the thing is benign, a simple flat color, the lowest setting, but it’s going to be enough. With a hesitation that has her biting her lip until her fangs poke and hurt, she presses the vibrator onto her clit gently, starts slow, soft, curtailing her movements with a sigh and lets her toes curl at the sensation.
Luka sucks in a breath.
“T-that’s better,” she mumbles to herself. Luka brings his hands up to reach for her, but she makes a face. “Hey. Stop it.”
His hand plant on the mattress on the sides of her thighs, holding back a noise. They sink into the mattress with a heavy weight, shooting off a thought that zings in her head and trails down her spine: she wants those heavy hands on her now. Now. Critical. “Please let me touch you.”
“Let me have some dignity.”
“That seems like a waste of time,” he says simply. “I’d rather you come on my face.”
“Ten seconds.”
“You have seven.”
The sound she’s making between her legs is already obscene, but that certainly doesn’t help. This type of wetness only comes around when she’s in the middle of the heat and ends up knocking Luka into his own rut like the world’s most ridiculous rube goldberg machine, the type of moment where his knot has to pop as much as possible in order to keep inside because she’s so slippery. A knot would be nice. A knot would be spectacular. Her cunt agrees, of course, squeezing down on empty air at the idea of being so full. A bite of her lips, a sting of red on her cheeks, and she presses the vibrator against her clit just a smidge harder and gives it a grind just at the idea of being knotted.
Her hips raise up to meet her own demand. A hoarse noise leaves her, but she punctuates it with a breathless: “Oh no… I think I’m starting a soft heat.”
Or at least, she tries to say. Things are kind of tough right now to get words out when she lisps over her fangs. When she blinks again, Luka’s face is starting to blur, her eyes no longer focusing on one specific thing. Right now, he’s a form in between her legs, all watercolor and blue with glinting teeth. A pathetic mewl and she’s reaching up to her own neck, pulling at the necklace that hides her glands so she can rub them and comfort herself while she keeps circling her clit with the wand.
“Yeah?” he breathes, savoring the word with how he lets the pause between them go heavy. Arousal blooms at the pitch of his voice, going low and whispery. “Want me to help?”
“Uhm—”
“Two seconds.”
Ah, to hell with this…
“Luka—” she replies, desperate for an answer back, unsure of what she wants but needs it now. “Holy— I’m so close, oh god.”
When the giant paws of the alpha in front of her finally make contact with the sides of her thighs, trying to bring her close to him so he undoubtedly can shove the vibrator aside, she gives a whine. There’s a shuffle. She’s not really sure. He might have hit the blunt edge of the vibrator with his chin or his shoulder— she’s not paying attention, too busy squeezing her eyes tight— but it forces it just ever so more into her.
Even so, it’s enough for her to tip over the edge of orgasming, right in front of them both.
“That’s it,” he whispers, like he can feel her orgasm flushing right out of her.
Her legs lock up, thighs tense and knuckles white; when she goes to pull herself away from her own clit, overwhelmed by the low buzz from the vibrator, Luka’s hand surrounds hers and keeps it in place. She can’t fight it. She’s too busy. His bicep is stronger than her entire body, and she’s a little preoccupied shrieking, kicking out a leg, shouting his name and telling him that she’ll curse his entire family to eat the most lukewarm tasteless kimchi for the rest of their lives if he doesn’t let her pull away. In that order.
“Keep going,” he goads, as the orgasm knocks her flat on her back and has her wheezing.
“Luka! It’s— ah— starting to hurt!”
“If we keep it on you long enough, you’ll squirt.”
She has the capability to complain, which is very useful in situations like these. “N-no way, that’s embarrassing!”
A laugh, something just to the left of sympathetic, sizzles along the skin of her thigh as he finally kisses a blank spot and worries her paleness in between his fangs. He pays her no attention, humming into the bite like he’s basking in the taste of her sweat. “That’s it. Nice and easy.”
It is nice and easy. Too nice. Too easy. A flailing hand finds his hair when he sucks a hickey right where the thigh turns into inner thigh, giving him another high-pitched whine that is just as broken as she feels. The vibrator keeps pushing her, stringing up another orgasm that is just at the tip edge, but she can’t. She won’t. Squirting, especially with Luka’s face in between her legs like that, feels miserably humiliating. It’s what he wants and she won’t let him.
If he won’t let her pull the vibrator away, she can always tuck it inside of her instead. A new angle has the purple, mini-microphone-shaped vibrator pressing up against her sopping hole, with little to no resistance to stop it from sheathing right all the way in. Way too quick. Way too full. Marinette breathes in hard enough to hurt, exhausted walls of her cunt seizing around it in what feels like surprise.
“You know what I think?” she asks the silence, no longer pocketed by the vibrator’s hum, given that it’s currently kissing her cervix. “I think I want you to knot me. For a— really long time, actually.”
To Luka’s credit, he doesn’t look shocked for very long, eyes snapping to meet hers. Is he angry? No, of course he isn’t. Luka doesn’t know the concept of anger. He looks intrigued. From the very few things she can see without it turning into an indiscernible blob, his eyes track her face like he’s trying to read her blissed-out expression. “I can do that.”
The raw, delicious honesty. God, she loves him.
“It has got to be my favorite moment,” she pants, panics, whines, shoving the vibrator all the way in until she can’t breathe, pulling out again, thinking of squeezing on him just like this, “where you— hah— the knot catches, and— I— breathe— and you can’t move because— god—”
“Yeah,” Luka says right back, not quite there, watching like a hawk as her hand moves the toy in and out. Eyes wide, pupils dilated until there’s no more blue, she’s slicker than honey at the sight of him licking his lips. He’s tuned her out, but he’s also listening, because his posture stays stagnant, letting her keep talking in his general direction while he stares down at her hand doing all the work. “Y-yeah, that—”
“That’s it,” she concludes. Or tries to. Another whine, another growl, another shift of her foot to spread her knees wide open so he can continue looking, almost standing up from the new angle pressing the toy into her bladder and causing her to whimper. “Ohh, god, that’s it, Luka, that’s all I— w-want— need— god, I— need you to knot me, please—”
And another one follows.
Another sigh, another hiss, and she’s snapping out an orgasm to compliment the first one. This one won’t make her squirt. Luckily. Luka’s disappointed, he must be, but he says nothing as she squeezes down on the vibrator until it hurts, until it feels so much, until she’s fighting with her hand to keep it inside. Luka’s busy nuzzling the side of her thigh, letting her wash through it, waiting for her to come back down.
“It’s— it’ll make me feel better,” is all she wheezes out when she finally comes to.
His hair is soft between her fingers, with long feathered lashes slow-blinking in her direction as she pets his blue bangs. “Why’s that? Are you hurting?”
“Headache,” she replies, not all quite there. “My brain was about to pop without that orgasm.”
“Is that why we’re here?”
Here, yes, with her only wearing her bra and holding tight onto a dream of being tucked into the bedsheets after an agonizing day, gasping around another orgasm, has her groaning once more. Something about him curls at the noise. It’s no longer heated and sexy and sharp, but the way he tucks his nose into her shoulder and purrs into her ear is soothing, relieving, and not all that horny, but makes her squeeze again on the vibrator that is currently smoothing out a shape inside of her to make a home.
“Yeah.”
He kisses her softly, slowly, lips against her collarbone and pulling the last remaining piece of clothing off of her with his large hands. There it goes. He puts a knee up on the mattress as she lays back, insistent on following her with his mouth, but thinks otherwise when he realizes his jeans are on; back down he goes onto the floor, only able to reach her stomach with his mouth and kisses the soft skin there.
“You’re not sick… doesn’t feel like you have a fever.”
“I hope not,” she groans. A hand wraps around hers, pumping the vibrator in and out. Intercourse doesn’t get her soaking wet, but it does help any frayed nerves by giving her something else to focus on. It feels nice. Refreshing. Shallow, slow pumps like a flowing tide only helped by the arousal between her legs makes her feel at home.
“Did you take your meds today?”
Right, that’s right. She’s taken these before, but it’s been months since she finally got it in stock, so the acclimation process has to start all over again. Is that why her head was bursting? All of this restlessness, this wet underwear, this desire to faceplant herself into his clavicle and snore, is because of the medication that keeps her focused at the bakery?
“I did.” And then: “Side-effects?”
“Sounds like it.”
“I’m horny and I’m with a headache because of side-effects?”
He laughs against her thigh, nipping the skin with a fang. Still pumping, though lazy and off-rhythm, it still creates that sticky and disgusting slick noise when he pushes all the way in, watches her inhale at the stretch, before lazily pulling right back out. “The good news is, we can cure most of that really quickly, now that you’re home.”
She’s not really paying attention. “Uh huh.”
“The bad news is, we may have to do this for the next week and a half every time you come home until the side-effects stop.”
And yet, it doesn’t really seem that bad after all, or at least that’s what her cunt suggests when she squeezes around the vibrator again.